Chapter One
The black A-Wing shot through Atollon' atmosphere at breakneck speeds, losing its pursuers with ease. Beneath his dark flight helmet, the pilot smiled briefly. The pilots of Phoenix Squadron were good, but their ships were no match for his heavily modified A-Wing. The stygian-prismatic polymer he'd used to coat the entire hull of the starfighter rendered it completely invisible to the naked eye and to all sensor scopes. If it hadn't been for the glow of his engines, the patrolling craft wouldn't even have been able to spot him.
As it was, their factory-spec ships simply weren't able to keep up with the numerous enhancements he'd made to the starfighter's already formidable engines. Gunning the engine, the pilot dove the ship deeper into the Atollon atmosphere, heading for a location he knew all too well.
Within a few minutes the towering coral mesa that housed Chopper Base came into view. Slowing his speed, the pilot brought his fighter down, heading for the wide landing field that housed Phoenix Squadron's main warships and starfighters. Picking a landing spot in between an aged Hammerhead corvette and a more modern CR90, the pilot set his craft down easily and popped the canopy.
Unstrapping his crash webbing, the pilot sprang out of the cockpit seat in an incredible leap that carried him a full two meters into the air above his fighter. Tucking his body into a ball, the pilot rolled forward in a pair of aerial somersaults that carried him over a patch of clear ground and came out in a vertical stance, landing lightly on his feet on the hard permacrete.
Standing tall in a formfitting flightsuit that matched the A-Wing in color, the pilot's hands hung at his side, making no move to reach for the blaster holstered at his side or the slim, black cylinder that hung from his utility belt.
Rebel troopers were turning all over the landing field to stare at him, and the closest soldier drew his blaster pistol swiftly.
"Freeze!" he shouted loudly, "Don't move a fracking muscle!"
The pilot did the exact opposite and shoved a black-gloved hand outwards at the trooper. Struck by an invisible force, the man was hurled a half-dozen meters backwards, arms flailing and landed hard on the solid permacrete.
Attracted by the sight of their comrade's defeat, more Rebel troopers hurried over from across the airfield. A full half-dozen rushed towards the masked figure, their tinted battle visors lowered, sleek blaster pistols gripped in their hands to point at the mysterious stranger.
As they approached, the black-suited intruder thrust both of his hands outwards and made a sharp grasping motion. A chorus of surprised shouts and curses rang out from the charging troopers as all six blasters were torn violently from their hands and flew past the helmeted interloper to clatter uselessly on the deck behind him.
Tensing their bodies warily, a few of the troopers raised their clenched fists, preparing to attack the interloper with their bare hands if necessary, while others hung back, wary of the masked stranger and his unnatural powers. A low sound emanated from beneath the pilot's helmet that could have been a chuckle, and he raised his hands again. The soldiers stiffened in preparation, but nothing could have prepared them for what the masked man did next.
Raising his hands again, the interloper pulled them close for a moment, clenching them into half-fists and then threw them out in a sudden and swift motion. If it had been an invisible gust that hit the first trooper, it was a gale that struck the disarmed infantrymen, blowing them across the hangar with a host of astonished shouts and screams. Some of the soldiers flew into free-standing ladders or starfighters, while others collided with supply crates or just crashed against the reinforced deck. None of them got up again.
Giving the situation a single satisfied nod, the black-helmeted figure turned towards the squat structure that he knew housed Phoenix Squadron's command center. Walking in long, brisk strides he headed for it with a swift, but unhurried pace. He was less than a dozen meters away when another group of soldiers came dashing out of the command center's blast doors. Ten determined-looking Rebel troopers, toting their compact DH-17's, accompanied by a petite, pale-haired woman armed with a pair of deadly-looking pistols and a hulking purple-furred Lasat bearing a long double-ended rifle.
Beneath his helmet, the pilot grinned wryly.
Coming to a halt a couple feet ahead, the troopers fanned out in an semi-circle formation, their guns all trained on the stranger. At the center of their formation stood the Lasat and his pale-haired companion.
"Freeze it!" the Lasat growled, hefting his rifle.
The pilot raised his hands slowly, keeping both palms open in a placating gesture. When the Rebels didn't fire, he continued to reach up and grasped his helmet with two hands. In a smooth gesture, he lifted the concealing headgear off, to reveal a pale-skinned face that still bore the smoothness of youth marred only by a pair of scars on the right cheek. The young man's blue-black hair was cropped short and his blue eyes shone with an electric intensity, affixed firmly on the pale-haired woman.
"Hello, Sabine," Ezra Bridger said, holding the helmet at his side with one hand.
"It's been a while."